


Three Days

by Tartlette1



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt Brock, Hurt/Comfort, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:13:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21507952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tartlette1/pseuds/Tartlette1
Summary: It was supposed to be a one day, out and back, mission in support of local military forces providing assistance to remote villagers. Brock had volunteered. But something has gone terribly wrong and what was supposed to be one day is now three. He’s separated from Bravo and haunted by a devastating event from his past.
Comments: 67
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

Three days. It had been three days since Brock had volunteered to assist the local military force. It was supposed to be a routine patrol and armed escort of a small convoy, delivering basic agricultural supplies and food staples, to a small number of remote villages. 

It was only supposed to have been a one-day, out and back assignment. A dawn to dusk support mission. For Brock, it was the opportunity of a much-needed break away from the confining spaces of the American forces base. A base where Brock, and the rest of Bravo, had spent the past four weeks. An unusually monotonous four weeks, broken up only by the occasional assignment. 

Brock didn’t consider himself an adrenaline junkie, or the type of operator who craved the intensity of high priority, high threat level assignments. 

It’s not that Brock had any sort of fear. He was actually fearless. For reasons that were personal to him and, perhaps, that Trent only knew about or suspected. Brock was fearless because there was nothing to fear. His worst fear had already come true. Years ago. 

It was always there, that personal ache in his chest. The moment in his past when his life had changed in an instant. A split second marker between happiness and whatever this was that came next. He didn’t know it then. He couldn’t have. He was only 14 at the time. But, it was moment that would put him on the path to the US Navy and the Seals. Even now, after all the horrors of war he’d seen, it was still the worst moment of his life. It defined him. And he never talked about it to anyone. He’d let something slip to Trent once though, in a melancholy moment fueled by bourbon. But all Trent knew was that Brock once had an older brother that he idolized. Trent didn’t know the rest. 

Brock had no issue with putting his life on the line every day. He didn’t fear death. He just didn’t physically crave the action the way some operators, like Sonny, and more recently, Clay, did. When he was a rookie, Brock privately questioned that about himself. But he knew, and quickly came to accept, that not all Seals are created equal. There wasn’t an assembly line churning out standard form Tier One operators with identical personalities and matching backstories. Instead, each operator brought something unique to their respective teams and to the job. Brock was so quietly self-assured and confident in himself that any such doubts he may have had were short-lived. He was okay being himself in this job. 

This had been an unusual deployment. And Brock’s agitation stemmed from spending so much time on a small base, without the normal number of assignments and missions. It resulted in a lot of togetherness. 

Brock loved his Bravo family, but his brothers were driving him crazy. It was what brothers did. But, for someone who craved solitude more than most, Brock felt the walls closing in, with no respite. He’s had just about enough togetherness of late. 

Jason was in bad mood, which was saying something. But this seemed to be worse than his usual grumpiness. Brock suspected it had something to do with lingering physical complaints, a recognition that he was closer to the end of his career as a Tier One operator than the beginning, difficulty adjusting to an empty nest at home, and delayed grief with never having fully dealt with Alana’s death. 

The quiet ones are the most perceptive. They spend so much time observing others that they can’t help it. Brock was 100% accurate in his assessment of Jason’s current mood, even if Jason didn’t understand it himself or was refusing to accept it. But Brock kept his thoughts to himself. As he usually did. It wasn’t his place and he knew better than to approach Jason about it now. Brock figured Ray would probably know what to do and when. So instead, Brock did his best to avoid Jason while on base. It wasn’t that hard. 

Jason loved the gym, lifting weights and improvised Crossfit sessions. Brock, on the other hand, was a runner. Actually, he was a swimmer first. But the team’s current location made it impossible to slip away for an hour or two of open water swimming or endurance lane swim. So he ran laps around the 3.5 mile perimeter of the base. 

He ran at night. He ran in the morning. He didn’t bother timing himself. That wasn’t the point. But then Clay started to join him, and it became a competition. At 3.5 miles, Clay had the edge. At 10 miles, it was Brock. And it wasn’t close. 

Brock had grown-up embracing the physical pain of endurance sports. His first memories were of swimming in the family’s backyard pool. He joined a competitive program when he was 7 years old. From then on, Brock was constantly pushing himself, testing the limits of his lungs, legs, arms and back muscles. He had been exceptionally good at it from a young age. And from the ages of 14 to 22, he hid inside that physical pain. His natural, gifted athletic talent merged with an emotional, raw, grief stricken pain. It was all-consuming. It was the only way he could cope at the time. When you’re so exhausted by the physical exertion that you can’t breathe, there’s also no breath to scream or cry. 

Clay’s need for competition had taken away Brock’s attempt at finding some solitude. Normally, he enjoyed running hills or going for longer runs with Clay. But something had been off with Clay the past few months. After Swanny’s funeral, Stella and Clay seemed to find their way back to each other. Clay tended to find an even keel with Stella. However, something had changed and Brock wondered if they had broken up. It was certainly obvious that Clay was increasingly spending more and more time, in more and more bars, with Jason. 

In this bizarro world, Clay was adapting some of Sonny’s more outlandish, larger than life, life of the party behaviours. Sonny, on the other hand, was taking on some of Jason’s extreme moodiness. Mostly only the bad moods. It seemed whatever woman had managed to tame the wild man a few months earlier was no longer in the picture. Sonny’s anger and devastation at that turn of events, made him impossible to be around. When he wasn’t growling thinly veiled insults or passive aggressive barbs at Ray, strangely the focus of his ire, Sonny was arguing with everyone about everything. 

While Brock was sympathetic, his sympathy for Sonny’s broken heart had a limit to it. That limit had been stretched to its near breaking point. That was another reason that Brock had jumped at the opportunity to leave the base for a few hours, volunteering to assist the local military force. Perhaps doing some good and ensuring that the needed agricultural materials and extra food supplies made it to the remote villages, was what he needed, along with a brief few hours away from his Bravo brothers, to recharge and get things right with himself for the remaining few weeks of the deployment. 

There had been no reason at the time to think it was anything more than a simple patrol and security escort of a modest amount of aid assistance. While the country had an issue with small, unorganized militia groups raiding foreign aid resources and threatening western and NGO workers, they were not known to be active in the area. 

It was only supposed to be a few hours. From dawn to dusk, and back at base in time for dinner. Brock and Cerberus had left the base with the small group of local forces on a Sunday morning. It was now Wednesday, still a few hours before sunrise. In the darkness, it was mostly quiet. Only occasional crackling embers, the remnants of the explosion that had mostly destroyed the village, remained, along with the low moans of the few survivors and the god-awful smell of death. 

With Cerberus mercifully uninjured and alert by his side, Brock allowed himself a few moments to drift back to the moment when he volunteered for this assignment. Bravo had been meeting with Blackburn, Davis and Mandy in the command centre when Eric raised the assignment. He had barely gotten the words out that he was looking for a volunteer, when Brock jumped in and announced that he would do it. He had said it with such forceful conviction, that it was settled then and there. Trent turned to look at his best friend, raised his eyebrow with a questioning expression. In response, Brock simply shrugged his shoulders. 

Trent didn’t question Brock’s quickness to volunteer, rather it was the urgency in which it was expressed. Trent knew Brock better than anyone else in Bravo. Yet, Trent still sometimes felt that he didn’t know Brock at all. That he only knew what Brock wanted him to know. Or that he only knew what Brock could comfortably share. And the rest, the things Brock kept to himself, were such painful wounds that he buried them down deep inside. In a place he wouldn’t let himself visit. 

Trent recalled a discussion he had with the Green Team instructor during Brock’s selection. The instructor had questioned at that time if perhaps there wasn’t a trauma somewhere in Brock’s past that was driving him. A trauma involving the loss of someone he couldn’t save. Having worked closely with Brock now for several years, and having become close friends, Trent was pretty certain the Green Team instructor was right. Trent was even more certain that whatever happened in Brock’s past that it involved his brother. The idolized older brother that Brock had only mentioned once in the entire time they had known each other. 

At the moment in the command centre, as the rest of Bravo was heading off to find ways to kill the time on base, Brock remained for a briefing with Blackburn and the head of the local military force about the assignment. He gave a little wave to Trent and smiled, a genuine smile of relief. Trent knew then that Brock was getting what he needed, some time away from the all the cramped togetherness. That Brock had spent four weeks with his Bravo brothers and all that time spent together as brothers had stirred up something in Brock. The void of a missing brother. A blood brother. 

Now in the darkness in the early morning hours of Wednesday before dawn, a sensory memory was starting to take hold in Brock’s mind. The crackling embers, the low moans of the few survivors and the smell of death. He remembered these things. The throbbing pain in both legs, the blistering burns on his forearm and the dull ache in his head made it impossible for him to stamp down on that memory. That night from his past, the worse moment of his life, was coming alive in his mind now. He was terrified.


	2. Chapter 2

Brock had woken at 5:00am on Sunday morning. Careful not to wake the remaining members of Bravo, he grabbed his pack of essentials, which had been meticulously organized the night before. He’d finish gearing up, and would grab the rest of what he needed, from his cage. Although a daytime patrol and providing a security escort in a relatively settled area of the country, Brock knew that missions often had a way of turning sideways, upside down and inside out. SNAFU was a well-known acronym for a reason. 

He tried to balance packing for the mission as presented, while still including other provisions that he might need if he had to spend an unexpected night in the field. An extra few clips of ammunition, and spare canteen of water, were always a good idea regardless of the circumstances, but especially when you weren’t travelling by foot and didn’t need to worry so much about what you had to carry. 

As Brock quietly made his way across the rather large room set aside as Bravo’s quarters, past his sleeping brothers, he heard Trent stirring in one of the bunks. In a low voice, Brock whispered, “sorry, man. I was trying not wake anyone. Go back to sleep”. It didn’t matter to Trent, since he was a light sleeper and generally an early riser. However, seeing Brock dressed for a mission that Bravo wasn’t joining him on was a bit unsettling. 

In the moment, coming out of the fog of sleep, Trent internally chided himself for being a ridiculous mother hen. Trent knew that Brock had a long history of military ops, both with and prior to joining Bravo. There was no doubt about his skills as an operator. He was methodical, practical, an excellent shot and a lethal operator. He did not take unnecessary risks and he had a good sense of tactics. 

Three days later, when he’d discovered Brock broken and burned, lying in the dirt of a destroyed courtyard of an abandoned religious Missionary outpost, Trent would briefly remember that ominous feeling he’d had as he’d watched Brock and Cerberus as they headed out without the rest of Bravo. In the days after that followed, Trent would spend hours regretting not having said anything to his brother before he left. That he’d rolled over, and gone back to sleep, without even saying goodbye or reminding his brother to watch his six. Like somehow that could have prevented everything from going to hell. 

___

From the beginning, nothing seemed to go right. At first there were small logistical problems, not uncommon in a country that had only recently been through the devastation and chaos of a civil war. 

There had been a delay in getting the supplies loaded on the two trucks, which had set the departure time back from dawn to the rising heat of late morning. Brock had chipped in to help get everything loaded. He had been tired of sitting around waiting and was eager to dispense some physical energy and get this mission on the road. Literally. 

When things were finally loaded and the local forces Brock was accompanying were ready to leave the depot area, they were down to a force of 6 people. For reasons unknown, or at least not communicated to Brock, what was supposed to be four men per truck, was now three. He’d been assured that the group he was accompanying were men trusted by their commander, a man Blackburn seemed to respect, and that they were among the more elite level forces available in the area. So, Brock did what he normally did. He said nothing. 

Brock trusted that the leaders around him knew what they were doing. He had also worked briefly with the local forces on a combined mission with Bravo a week or two earlier, and had seen no outward cause for concern about their capabilities. Although there was a language barrier, he was mostly able to communicate with the men he was being sent out with. The mission wasn’t thought to require much need for communication anyway. Load supplies, drive, unload and return to base. If only it had been that easy. 

Once finally fully loaded and on the road, it had been a quiet three-hour drive to the first village. As the sun rose high in the sky, the temperature had continued to rise. The heat was heavy and oppressive. The near 90% humidity hung in the air and beads of sweat trickled down the back of Brock’s neck. It was unpleasant. Moving along at 50km per hour, the best they could manage on what had once been a busy highway, but was now a damaged and uneven road following a two-year long civil war, provided some welcome air circulation. However, once the vehicles left the main highway and spent the next hour on a narrow, dirt road into the first village, they lost the bit of breeze they had previously enjoyed, having had to slow down to navigate their away around downed tree limbs, large rocks and small craters. 

Arriving at the first village just after 2pm, the vehicle was unloaded within an hour. Brock, and the military forces he was accompanying, were generously given a meal of fresh fruit and cooked fish prepared by the villagers. Grateful for their generosity, Brock enjoyed the brief time spent in the village, while also tending to Cerberus and ensuring that he topped up both canteens with fresh water. As time closed in on 3:30pm, hours behind schedule, they set off for the second village, their final destination. About 90 minutes away, down another dusty and bumpy dirt road, there would hopefully be enough time to quickly unload, turn around and make their way back to the main highway before the sun had fully set and they were left with the darkness, which would make navigating the hazardous dirt road an unwelcome task. 

As the second village came into view, it was not what Brock had expected. It wasn’t actually a village insomuch as a few, modest-size structures clustered close to the shore of the country’s largest river. What really stood out was that the settlement appeared largely uninhabited. The hairs on Brock’s arms and the back of his neck stood up. Cerberus, picking up on the tension emanating from his handler, was alert and ready to seek, find and eliminate any threat. 

The lead truck came to an immediate stop, well short of the first structure to the village. Before they could decide on a course of action to investigate, a young teenage male appeared, exiting from one of the structures and began to approach the vehicles. After confirming he was unarmed, the male was allowed to proceed. 

The conversation that followed was in a language Brock did not fully understand. Although he could not understand all of what was being said, Brock could read the young man’s body language. The young man certainly seemed nervous and scared. 

According to the young man, the rest of the area’s inhabitants had abandoned the village, moving further upstream, deeper into the forested jungle, settling in an abandoned religious Missionary outpost. Something had prompted the move. Something about tensions with one of the small groups of militia that remained even after the civil war had officially ended. While this was not something known in the initial briefing of the assignment. It was not that surprising either. Years of civil war do not end with an immediate return to peaceful democracy. Not in this part of the world if history was any indication. So, the small group of villagers had retreated deeper into the forested jungle they were familiar with, away from the militia that threatened them, and further away from civilization. 

This unexpected turn of events required a decision. Continue on further into the forested jungle and deliver the supplies to the villagers at their new location. Or, return to base without completing the mission and leaving the villagers without supplies that they would certainly need, especially after abandoning their long-held settlement. To turn around would mean nearly a three-hour drive back to the main highway. Continuing forward, another hour into the jungle would mean arriving around the golden hour, just as the sun was about to set, and would require a night spent in the former Missionary outpost. 

After the local military force conferred with their commanding officer in charge of the assignment, it was ordered that they proceed forward. Deliver the supplies, spend the night and return to base in the morning. Brock understood and accepted the decision. To him, it was the right choice, based on the information they had at the time. Hindsight is 20/20. 

As he stared out the window of the moving vehicle, eyes sweeping the narrowing dirt road in front of him, and the dense forested jungle surrounds, Brock was struck, as he often was, by a profound sense of gratitude for having won the birth lottery. Yes, he had faced a devastating tragedy at a young age, but he was born in a democratic country, with a stable economy, developed infrastructure, and free from war within its own borders. Having spent nearly a decade operating in various war-torn countries, Brock was reminded of this often. Shaking that thought from his mind, he looked forward as the vehicle arrived at the abandoned Missionary outpost. It was just that. Abandoned. 

No one appeared like at the last village. After conducting a sweep of the few remaining structures, including the ghost-like building that used to house Missionaries’ church, it seemed clear that they were alone. Not counting whatever may have been lurking the forested jungle that surrounded them. 

There was no evidence that anyone had made use of the buildings in quite some time. Certainly, there was no evidence that a small group of settlers had taken refuge in the outpost or claimed it as their own. There was no indication that they had ever been there. As the sun set, and the Sunday evening was now cloaked in darkness, Brock and the small group of men he was accompanying realized they had been lied to. Lied to and lured to this location for a reason that probably involved the supplies they were delivering. Surrounded and covered by deep canopy of trees, they were unable to make contact with commanding officer in charge of the mission. They were now cut-off. Isolated, exposed and undermanned for whatever was headed their way. 

__

Blackburn had provided an update to the rest of Bravo several hours earlier. Back when all they knew was that the mission was proceeding forward further into the jungle to a new settlement to deliver the supplies. Knowing only that Brock’s mission had been delayed and extended, Jason was annoyed. Clay had a number of questions about the mission itself. Ray wanted to know more about the militia groups in the area. Trent was quiet, wondering just how concerned he needed to be. Sonny, as he would later regret, jokingly suggested Brock’s was normally so quiet he wouldn’t miss him. 

__

Driving out in darkness was too risky. An ambush on the narrow, dirt road would be impossible to defend. If they remained at the outpost, they had a chance. And having missed a check-in, command would be alert to the possibility that something was wrong. 

With his experience, Brock had taken over the leadership role of preparing a defence. Doing the best he could to coordinate positions and strategy with a rather challenging language barrier. Once he was confident that the men he was now in charge of were prepared and ready, he set up his own position. Brock was laser focused, trusting his instincts, training and years of experience. Adrenaline coursed through him. He was ready to defend his position and the lives of the men he was with. 

__

The attack came at dawn on Monday morning. While the rest of Bravo slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: This is a rather long, filler chapter. Setting the scene, before we get to the whumpy good stuff.


	3. Chapter 3

Monday night, hours after the first attack, within the confines of the abandoned missionary outpost, only three men and one dog were still alive. The other men in the group Brock had been assigned to accompany, were now dead. They had fought for hours, fending off a small, but heavily armed, number of militia who had arrived at dawn. Their deaths were like most deaths in combat. Brutal, quick and violent. 

At first, the intent of the militia’s ambush had appeared to be limited to stealing the agriculture materials and food supplies that had been meant to assist isolated villages. The goods would command a high price on the black market in the country’s current economic state. It was worth the risk for a militia looking to make both money and a name for itself among the various unorganized groups that remained a threat to the country’s stability. However, when faced with a strong resistance, and a number of their own men having been killed, the intent behind the ambush changed. It was now fueled by retribution and vengeance. For now, the two sides had hunkered down into defensive positions. Neither one possessing the strength for an offensive push. However, the militia had reinforcements on the way, they would be arriving soon. 

____________________________

It was Monday evening by the time that Bravo received official confirmation that Brock, and the unit he had been assisting, had missed three consecutive check-ins. 

The first missed check-in was noted and downplayed as an unfortunate communications failure, given their last known location and orders to proceed further into the dense forested jungle. The second missed check-in was logged with greater concern. However, it was close enough to the group’s expected return to a more populated area, only a couple of hours from base, that they were granted more leeway, up to the time of the anticipated third check-in. It was the third consecutive missed check-in that raised the alarm that something had gone significantly, seriously, and very, very wrong. 

The remaining five members of Bravo had been alerted to the issue, having expected Brock back by early afternoon. Following the third missed check-in, Jason and the rest of Bravo spent the next several hours waiting for the green light to proceed to Brock’s confirmed last known location. They prepared their gear, cleaned their weapons, pressed Blackburn for updates and tried not to dwell on the many different worst-case scenarios. 

Brock’s absence, despite being the quietest of the group at nearly all times (spare a few wild nights out when he pushed his ability to consume Jack Daniels at will), hung over them. Clay, who had become increasingly assertive in recent months, demonstrating strong leadership capabilities since returning to duty after events in Manilla, was now quiet, stilled and eerily calm. It was as though he was taking on Brock’s role in the Bravo team dynamic. To be consistent, silently confident, reassuring and focused. Even when things went FUBAR, Brock was never rattled. He remained the same. Steady and dependable. Now, with Brock missing, Clay was subconsciously assuming that role for the time being. He would be the calming and quietly confident presence that Bravo needed. Especially now. 

Jason, on the other hand, was climbing the walls. It physically pained him to think that Brock was out there, most likely up against a desperate and unknown enemy, in a brutal environment, with only a small and unfamiliar force by his side. The men in the small group that Brock had been accompanying were strangers to Jason. Specifically, they weren’t Seals. They weren’t Bravo. He couldn’t count on them to have Brock’s back when things got ugly. 

The more time that passed, the harder it became for Jason not to think of the odds. Having been missing for more than 24 hours, Jason knew that Brock had likely passed through the Survive and Evade phases of SERE and was now in the stage of Resist. He was familiar with what that meant for Brock and the condition they might find him in. If they found him at all. 

The longer they waited and were told to stand by, the further Jason got from himself. Deep down he wondered. No. He knew. If they (he) lost Brock, it would be the loss that would finally push him over the edge. There would be no chance that he’d ever find peace or make a life for himself once his operating days were over. Loosing Brock would be the loss that would haunt Jason forever. 

If loosing Brock would haunt Jason forever, it would destroy Trent. Brock was his brother. Closer to Trent than his real family. 

Trent had known that something had been off with Brock for the past week or two. Having been on countless deployments and lengthy missions together, Trent could recall a few previous instances where Brock would subtly withdraw from the group. Brock would be there physically. But, also not there completely. His quiet, affable, relaxed demeanor would change and he would be enveloped in a subtle darkness, that only Trent and Ray seemed to pick up on. Between the two of them, Ray was the first to mention it. It would have felt like a betrayal somehow if it had been Trent. But when Ray first approached him about it, a few years ago, Trent knew exactly what Ray was talking about. He’d seen it too. 

They had been on the military transport home, after a grueling 12-week deployment. At the tail end of the deployment, Brock, normally one to participate in any off-base carousing or evenings around the fire pit, had started making himself scarce. No one was really sure where he went. Cerberus knew. But even if could share, he would never tell. Sonny’s theory, that he delighted in sharing, of course involved dancers and booty calls. 

As the rest of Bravo celebrated the end of a successful deployment, Brock shared a beer or two with them and then retreated to the back of the plane, a location that was also as far away as he could get from the others. 

Ray had used the opportunity to speak privately with Trent about what he had observed and whether Brock was really okay. Trent was relieved that someone else had noticed what he had picked up on. But, he was also worried, because it meant that he wasn’t imagining it. Both Ray and Trent conceded that nothing had changed in how Brock performed in the field, that his ability wasn’t compromised and that he wasn’t a danger to himself. However, something was off, but neither of them could even put into words exactly what it was that concerned them. So, they decided not to say anything. They didn’t see Brock for a few days after they arrived home. But when he reappeared, everything was as it had been and Trent was relieved. 

When it happened again a year later, Trent again said nothing. He had a choice and he chose to respect Brock’s privacy. But he knew. He could sense there was something in Brock’s past that was rearing its ugly head. 

Sometimes Trent was mad at himself for not forcing Brock to confront what it was that haunted him. Other times Trent was frustrated and hurt by Brock’s choice not to trust and confide in him. But, mostly he was worried. Whatever it was that Brock was hiding from him, it was painful. A deep wound that haunted his life and formed his personality. It also made him an invaluable teammate. Brock would always sacrifice himself for others, without question. Trent worried how far that sacrifice extended. 

Now, Brock was missing. All they knew was that he was with a small group of local military forces. Men who were all quite a bit younger than Brock and lacked the experience, background and training necessary to hold off a prolonged attack indefinitely. Trent knew that Brock would sacrifice himself for any of those men. That it was what it would probably come down to. Trent was mentally preparing himself for the worst. He knew that he needed that mental wall in place. So that if Brock needed him to save his life, that he’d be ready. That shock, anger, rage and grief wouldn’t cause him to hesitate or his hands to shake. That he’d know exactly what to do. 

Trent was ready. Bravo was going to find their missing brother. And Trent was going to save his life. Trent knew that any other outcome would likely destroy him. 

______________________________

While Bravo had been preparing their gear so they’d be ready to depart at a moment’s notice, Blackburn had been working back channels to have command of Brock’s mission transferred from local military forces and handled over the Seals. His request was eventually granted sometime after midnight on Monday (now early Tuesday). 

Eric, Mandy and Davis would spend the next 24 hours trying to find the exact location of where Brock and the rest of his group had been heading when they left the second village on late Sunday afternoon. All that was known was that they were proceeding forward, deeper into the jungle, towards a newly established village. The fact that the actual destination was an abandoned Missionary outpost had either not been effectively communicated from the outset, or, was somehow lost in translation. 

It took hours to obtain a copy of the original communication which had relayed the status of Brock’s group after finding the second village largely abandoned. Although Clay wasn’t as proficient in the local language, he was exceptionally good at languages in general and had some familiarity with the country’s different dialects. After listening to the recorded conversation several times, including the back-and-forth on whether the group would proceed forward to a third location, Clay was able to provide a sufficiently detailed translation of the unit’s last transmission. Importantly, Clay had picked up on two different religious references, something that loosely translated to god or the house of god. 

It was the break they needed. Davis, who had spent hours studying any available map of the region she could access, recalled seeing one reference to an abandoned Mission. ISR over the area was approved. Once in place, they had the confirmation they needed. The thick tree canopy prevented any detailed images, but it was clear that there had been a fire or explosion of some sort, smoke could be seen billowing up through the trees. Running it up the chain of command, Bravo was approved to proceed to the Mission, locate Brock and the other five missing men, and return everyone to base. By now, it was late Tuesday evening. Bravo was geared up and ready. They had been ready for at least the past 24 hours. Wherever Brock was, Bravo would find him and bring him home. 

_______________________________

The smoke visible on ISR had come from the explosion that destroyed the church. 

Aided by reinforcements, armed with RPGs, the militia was finally able to gain the upper hand. The RPGs reduced every structure in the outpost to rubble. 

The last thing Brock would recall was witnessing the destruction of part of the compound, taken out by an RPG. Low on ammunition, and already physically compromised by a bullet that entered and exited his left leg just above the knee, Brock had been unable to take out the remaining RPG before it laid waste to the church he was positioned in. The impact blast knocked him off his feet, with the force of a freight train. The church, the last remaining structure, crumbled in a plume of fire, smoke and dust. 

The militia got what they came for. Both the supplies and vengeance. When the militia pulled out, in the same trucks that Brock arrived in, they left nothing behind but smoking rubble, death and broken bodies.


	4. Chapter 4

As it approached dawn on the morning of the third day, Brock was drifting in and out of consciousness. He had miraculously survived two full days of fighting and a gunshot wound to the left leg. But despite surviving the explosions that finally levelled the outpost, he knew that his body had been broken in the blast. There was now a ringing in his ears, painful burns to his forearm, an obvious leg break and the taste of blood in his mouth. With these added injuries, it was only a matter of hours. He knew that he wouldn’t survive the day. 

The militia, presuming he was dead and that no one remained alive after the RPG attacks, had left without conducting a thorough search. Brock’s brain, even muddled by a concussion, had instinctually known that he needed to remain still and absolutely quiet until the threat was gone. Fortunately, or unfortunately as the case may be, the blast injuries he sustained had kept him from moving or from returning to full consciousness until long after the militia had taken what they wanted and left. 

The last three men that remained from the forces that Brock had been assigned to had succumbed to their injuries only an hour or two after the militia had finally departed. Brock had done everything he could to keep them alive during the long, drawn out fight. Following the explosions, hearing their low moans, he had tried to reach them. To be by their side. So that they would be together at the end. Their end. 

Hampered by a gunshot wound to his left leg, and what was likely a broken right femur, he was unable to stand. So, he crawled. Dragging himself forward, despite third degree burns to his left forearm, the dizzying ringing in his ears, and what he was certain were internal injuries. He was unable to reach them before his arms gave out. Lying in the dirt, Brock called out to them, but his mind couldn’t focus on finding the right words, in a language a barely knew. So, he talked to them in English. He didn’t know if they could hear him or even understand. But he needed them to know, that they fought well. That they were brave. That they were honourable. That he was proud of them. That they had deserved better. That he was sorry. And then it was quiet. And, but for Cerberus curled up by his side, he was alone. 

Alone, with the memories of his past. Of that night when he was 14 years old. The night that he lost his brother. As the sun began to rise, Brock lay in the dirt, with his long-ago memories swirling about in his mind. A sob escaped his lips and the tears began to stream down his face. He gave in to the memories and they all flooded back. Both the good and the bad. Brock had spent years trying to forget that he’d once had a brother. Now, as the memories floated in and out of his mind, he was struck by their vivid intensity. 

For the first time in nearly 20 years he could see his brother’s face. It was alive and not the faded flat image of an old photograph. They were sitting at the kitchen table in the house where Brock had grown up. It was late summer evening. Dinnertime. The early evening sun cast a golden glow. The windows were open and there was a slight breeze, catching the curtains. His brother’s hair, darker and longer than he remembered, was damp, probably having come in from a swim in the family pool. He was 18 years old and wearing that familiar Pearl Jam concert t-shirt. Having spent most of the summer in Europe, at the end of a semester abroad, Brock’s brother was home for a couple of weeks before heading back to University. His brother was laughing. A laugh Brock could remember, even long after he’d forgotten the sound of his brother’s voice. It was the last meal they’d ever eat all together around the kitchen table. The last meal together as a family of four. Before his brother went back to school. Before his brother died.

Brock had idolized his brother throughout his childhood. As a kid, Brock saw his brother as a superhero. He was easygoing. Outgoing, smart, funny, athletic and tall. His brother introduced him to alternative rock and cult classic movies. Treated him as a trusted friend and equal. His brother supported the sacrifices Brock made for his swimming, while reminding him that he still deserved to have a little fun. When his brother had left for the semester abroad, it already been arranged that Brock would spend the Easter break with him in Munich. 

As the memories continued to float in and out of his mind, he could now see his brother standing beside him. They were jumping up and down, enthusiastically rooting for Bayern Munich. They’d screamed and cheered and celebrated a win for a team and sport they knew nothing about. His brother had ended the day by buying him his first beer with a promise not to tell their parents and that Brock would come to him before ever considering drinking another beer. Brock’s chest began to ache, as though a pit of despair was opening up and swallowing him whole. 

The memory of that perfect day in Munich was too much. It was too much of a reminder of what he had lost. His brother was gone. He died 20 years ago. He died six months after Munich and two months after that late summer evening around the kitchen table. He died sitting next to Brock, in the crumpled wreckage of the family’s SUV. Brock, 14 years old, spent 90 minutes trapped in the wreckage with his brother’s body, his empty eyes staring back at him. 

As that gruesome and devastating memory took hold, Brock wondered if it would be the last thing he remembered before he finally slipped away. It seemed right. Brock had always figured he should have died the same night as his brother. Sitting next to each other, shoulders almost touching. In a way, he had. At least part of him anyway. 

___________________________

It was a Saturday night. His brother was home from University for the weekend. Their parents were out of town at a wedding. The Reynolds’ brothers had gone into town for burgers. The accident took place only 3 km from the family home. In the crumpled, wreckage of the car, Brock could feel a sharp pain in his right shoulder. His first thought was that he’d probably have to miss swim practice in the morning. But, as he turned to look at his brother, he knew from the unfocused gaze, the wheezing slow, short breaths, that his brother was dying. He remembered what it was like when their grandfather had died. It was like this. Only Brock’s grandfather had been 84 and had lived a full life. His brother was 18 with his entire life in front of him. 

Brock reached for his brother’s hand. Begged him not to leave him. Pleaded with him to hang on. Told him over and over that he loved him and that he needed him. That he didn’t know what to do. His brother’s eyes focused in on him for few brief moments. As he whispered the words, “little brother”, a faint smile ghosted across his lips. And then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter left after this one. Stay tuned.


	5. Chapter 5

As Bravo arrived at the abandoned Mission, they exited the transport vehicle and made their way in, travelling the last 500 meters on foot. Unaware of what awaited them, or what they might find, they first had to perform a sweep of the perimeter and eliminate any remaining threats. What they found were countless rounds of spent ammunition, piles of rubble, bodies and blood. 

It was clear that one hell of a firefight had taken place not long ago. Heavy tire tracks, along with a number of empty crates, suggested a squad of unknown size had descended on the Mission, took what it wanted by sheer force and overwhelming firepower, but at a cost of heavy casualties, before disappearing off into the forested jungle. 

What they had yet to find was Brock, Cerberus or the men that Brock had volunteered to assist. 

Making their way forward, towards the ruins of the Mission’s church, there was a noticeable stillness in the air. With their combined, and individual, years of experience operating in dangerous war zones around the world, the members of Bravo each had an intuition, or sense, of when something was off. When there was an imminent, yet unseen threat. When they were being watched. When they were in someone’s crosshairs. When they were a split second away from the being on the cusp of this life and the next. 

Sonny was the first to verbalize it. “Tell me I’m not the only one who feels like I’m tip toeing through a cemetery”. 

Perhaps it was being in the smoking ruins of a religious mission. Perhaps it was because it was so damn quiet that it reminded him so much of Brock. Perhaps because he knew exactly what death smelt like – and it was all-around them now. It was probably for all of those reasons that for the first time since Brock’s group had missed their check-ins, a fist clenched around Sonny’s heart. 

Fear was settling in. Not one of the normal fears he was so fond of sharing. Not those fears of snakes, rats, spiders, sharks, dolphins or cats (don’t ask). A deeper fear. His one real and honest fear. The only thing that he regularly lost sleep over and would try to numb with alcohol. The only thing that Sonny truly feared. Loss. The loss of someone he loved. The loss of someone he would have traded his life for. 

For three days, the only things Sonny had thought about were finding Brock, dispensing some vengeance, and getting the hell out this god forsaken country. Now, surrounded by the smell of death, he dreaded the thought of finding Brock here. He dreaded what that would mean. That his brother, who had always had their backs, who quietly went about his business without complaint and without any doubts, had fought for hours, days even, only to die alone, not knowing if his brothers were coming for him. 

The stillness in the air and the silence that surrounded them, made the hairs on the back of Clay’s neck stand up. Sonny was right. This place felt like a graveyard. 

As they approached the far edge of the abandoned Mission, in the area closest to the ruins of the church, Clay was the first to see it. Cerberus was laying on the ground, about 50 feet away. Partially obscured by large pieces of rubble. It was a devastating image that Clay couldn’t quite process at first. And then the dog’s head popped up, turned and looked directly at him. Cerberus, as if trying to communicate, looked back down at the ground and back towards Clay again. 

It took a second, but then it registered with Clay. Cerberus hadn’t barked, he didn’t whine, he didn’t stand. “Oh, fuck….no…no….no”. Clay began to sprint towards Cerberus. Scrambling over debris and chunks of rubble. Knowing exactly what he would find there. As he approached, he saw them. Cerberus, appearing uninjured, lying next to his handler. As Clay took the final steps forward to them, Cerberus gave a mournful cry and laid his head back down on to the chest of his handler. 

Clay dropped to his knees beside his brother. Brock, lying on his back in the dirt, eyes closed, face covered in grime, small cuts on his forehead and neck, an ugly burn on his forearm and large patches of dried blood on his pants. With his hands shaking, he reached out to his brother, checking for a pulse. Nothing. Focus and check again. Nothing. 

Wait…wait…there it is. It’s faint and weak. But it was there. He screamed for Trent. 

They weren’t too late. Brock had done his part. He had fought for three days to survive and had hung on until the rest of Bravo could get there. Now Bravo would do their part. Trent was going to keep him alive and they would get Brock and Cerberus the hell out of this jungle purgatory. Blackburn would coordinate the medevac. The base surgeons would do their jobs and Brock would recover. Cerberus was fine. Everything was going to be okay. Clay internally repeated these things to himself over and over. Telling himself everything was going to be okay. But despite how many times he repeated this internal mantra, Clay knew from the moment that he saw Brock lying there that his brother was on the cusp. Hovering on the brink between this world and the next. Clay knew the agonizing truth was that he would likely be forced to bear witness to his brother’s final breath. 

Trent had seen Clay sprint off towards a section of rubble and knew immediately that they had found Brock. Not far behind, he arrived to see his best friend lying still and broken in the dirt. As Trent knelt down next to Brock, his mind was clear and focused. The fact that this was Brock, was pushed down and locked away in another part of brain, the same place where his nightmares lived. He knew he’d relive these moments for months, if not years. That he’d wake up in a frantic panic. But, for now, he was detached from all emotion. Focusing only determining Brock’s most pressing medical needs. 

Trent continued to work, efficiently addressing Brock’s various injuries, doing what he could, knowing that what Brock really needed was a trauma surgeon. He remained detached right up until the moment, when they were finally back in the transport vehicle, making their way to emergency medevac location, that Brock opened his eyes. Brock was looking through him, eyes glazed and hollow. Leaning forward, he squeezed Brock’s hand. “Hey, brother. We got you. We’re right here. You’re going to be okay. Just hang on a little bit longer”. 

Although his eyes remained open, Brock was mostly unresponsive. He stared past and through all of them as they reached out, their hands on his head and arms, and running through his hair. Oblivious to even Cerberus, miraculously uninjured, who was tucked in at his side. His brothers and his canine partner unwilling to let go of that physical connection, for fear that it was the only thing that kept Brock tethered to them. That kept him from slipping away. 

As they neared the clearing where the medevac chopper had landed with the base trauma surgeon on board, knowing that he was giving Brock over to the surgeon for the flight back to the base hospital, Trent found himself speaking to Brock as a brother. Not as a military brother. But with the intimacy of a blood brother. “Listen up, brother. I know this is hard and how much it hurts. But I know how stubborn you are. Don’t let this break you. Don’t let this be the end.” With his voice catching with emotion, Trent said what they were all thinking. “We need you and we love you, little brother.” 

It took several seconds, but there was a perceptible change. Brock’s eyes seemed to become more focused. His gaze shifting amongst the five faces above him, before settling in on Trent. As the two men locked eyes, a tear rolled down Brock’s cheek. An invisible weight seemed to be lifted and he seemed to gather some strength. Brock then uttered the one word, a name, that had been on his mind for 20 years. A name he hadn’t spoken out loud in nearly two decades. The name of his brother. The brother he had idolized. The brother who challenged and supported him. The brother whose death had both broken and defined him. Even now, the only person he had ever called, brother. 

“Jack”

Trent knew. Brock was calling for his brother. 

Sonny of course, had no idea. “What the fuck just happened?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: I am sorry for how long it took to get Chapter 5 up. I could visualize what I wanted from the chapter, but found it hard to put into words. I also find dialogue to be a challenge. I’ve got a better start on the next chapter (which will be the last one), so that’s some good news.


	6. Chapter 6

Cerberus and the five men of Bravo stood in the clearing, watching the medevac chopper depart with Brock. It was the quickest way to get him back to base and into surgery. Although desperate not to be separated from their brother again, when they had only just found him, it was clear that Brock didn’t have the luxury of time. No matter how fast they made their way back to base by armored vehicle, they were too far out, and Brock’s injuries were too serious. 

A gunshot wound, broken femur, third degree burns, and unknown internal injuries. Any of them could easily kill him. All of them were actively trying to. The fact that they hadn’t was either a testament to Brock’s stubbornness, luck of the draw, or something larger than a minor miracle. Probably a combination of all three. 

If there was any doubt to the extensive nature of Brock’s injuries, they were confirmed by the trauma surgeon on the medevac. He had taken one look at his patient and whispered, “sweet Jesus”. Barking orders, “we got to go. Now”, and with a quick flurry of activity, the chopper was in the air, leaving the rest of Bravo behind. 

As the chopper disappeared from view, Jason broke the grief-tinged silence. He was well practiced in the ability to compartmentalize. Right now, he needed to get the rest of his men back to base without incident. It was a long drive and, as the past three days had proven, everything could turn to shit in an instant. Their line of work all but guaranteed the situation on the ground was ever changing. Fluid. Tempermental. It didn’t take much to enflame hostilities. Allies one instant were threats the next. Bravo didn’t have the luxury of letting their guard down. 

“Alright let’s load up and get the hell out of here. Ray, you’re driving”. 

Jason knew it had to be Ray. He didn’t want to ask it of Trent or Clay. It would be cruel to ask them to spend the next several hours staring at their blood-stained hands on the steering wheel. He also needed them to look after Cerberus. The dog was so clearly grieving that it physically pained Jason to think that Cerberus probably believed Brock was gone. Having disappeared from him forever. 

Both Trent and Clay had their own individual bonds with the dog. Jason hoped they’d provide a temporary comfort to one another. Jason was also reluctant to ask Sonny to drive. Jason was well aware that Sonny, when faced with the loss of a teammate, was reckless with his own life at best. And at worst, was driven by a tunnel-vision need for vengeance that it had the potential to impair his judgement. Jason knew that Ray, with his strength and faith, would set the tone that the others would follow.

_____________________________________

Less than an hour from base, back firmly in a part of the country under the control of more peaceful forces, and less prone to violent outbreaks, the men of Bravo relaxed somewhat. Blackburn had provided an update. Brock was in the third hour of a long surgery. He told them it was going as well as could be expected. He told them, while the gunshot wound and broken femur were both serious, they were uncomplicated procedures. The internal injuries were far more significant. He didn’t talk about that. 

For now, Blackburn kept it to himself that the medical team had cautioned that Brock was likely too weak to survive the surgery. However, Blackburn had insisted they proceed. Because what was the alternative? To just let his man die, without trying? Without fighting for Brock, as hard as Brock had fought for himself to get back to them? That’s not what leaders do. They fight for their men. They do everything they can to give them the best odds to survive. So Blackburn made the call and the surgeon made no promises. 

While he waited, Blackburn paced the halls outside of the surgical area. He’d given up on any attempts to distract himself with paperwork. It felt wrong to be sitting at his desk. To have left Brock alone without anyone from his team with him. If he couldn’t be in the surgery with Brock, Eric would be just outside. It was as close as he could get. 

Eric had blamed himself for a long time after Clay was rushed out of the Philippines and sent back to the US, alone, for his surgery and recovery. Rationally, he knew it was the best decision at the time to get Clay the treatment he needed. But, he’d seen the mental and emotional toll that took on Clay. How much Clay had struggled in his recovery without the guys there by his side. 

As angry as Eric was at Brett Swann for having taking his own life, knowing that it was another emotional trauma Clay would struggle with, he was forever grateful that Brett had been there to help Clay during the darkest days. Unable to tell him in person when he was alive, privately, Eric had placed a simple note inside Brett’s casket, to thank him for all that he’d done for Clay, and expressing a hope that he’d found the peace he craved and deserved. 

Now in the present moment, this wasn’t the Philippines. It wasn’t the same situation as it had been with Clay. As much as it terrified him that Brock’s condition was too unstable, too precarious to be airlifted to the US, he was relieved it meant they’d all be there for Brock when (if) he came out of surgery.  
_______________________________________

As he stared out the window, eyes sweeping the fields that lined the highway leading them back into the city and towards the base, Clay thought about Brock. Mentally, he tried to list everything he knew about him. Favorite foods. What made him laugh. How popular he was with the Yummy Mummy crowd at the dog park. How much he enjoyed it, but pretended not to notice. That he’d been the first to offer genuine friendship when Clay joined Bravo. That his drink of choice, Jack Daniels, could be his best friend and his worst enemy. That the night of his 33rd birthday, Brock drank himself into such a stupor that Clay and Sonny had to carry him home, and Trent had to start an IV in the morning to deal with the hangover. Clay had often wondered about that night well after the fact. It was pretty out of character for Brock. None of them had ever seen him anywhere close to being on the edge like that. Truthfully, it had scared Clay a little bit. He knew then that there was a darkness in Brock that he worked very hard to keep from them. It scared Clay to realize how much it reminded him of Brian. 

When Brian died, Clay had done the same thing. Mentally listed all the things he could remember about him. Trying to imprint every detail about his best friend into his memory, so it wouldn’t be lost or forgotten. As it turned out, there were a lot of things that he thought he “knew” about Brian, that weren’t true. They’d been the things Brian wanted to be true. Small and large details about a fictionalized perfect happy childhood and all-American family. Clay had only learned the truth about Brian’s harsh upbringing after he died. He understood. He couldn’t judge Brian for inventing the life that Clay also would have chosen for himself if he’d been given the opportunity. 

While Clay had naturally gravitated to Sonny and Jason, spending more time with them during off hours, he’d known for quite some time that it was because Brock reminded him so much of Brian, that it hurt. So Clay had kept Brock at bit at arm’s length. To be fair, Brock had done the same thing to all of them, even Trent. Clay was right in his suspicion that there was something in Brock’s past, just like there had been with Brian. A trauma, most likely, that kept him from getting too close to any of them. 

__________________________________

Back on base, crowded together in the small private waiting room, waiting for any new update on their friend, Clay shared what he’d been thinking. What he’d subconsciously known for months, but had never actually put into words before. 

“He never calls us brother. None of us. Jason, you’re “boss”. The rest of us? We’re just Trent, Sonny, Ray and Clay”. It wasn’t an accusation. Clay wasn’t angry or hurt or even confused. It was more of a realization. A piece of larger puzzle clicking into place. 

Ray, his head bowed, nodded, recognizing the truth in Clay’s words. He’d known Brock a lot longer than Clay. Yet, Ray had never realized what was now so obvious. But as he tried to think of a time, and example to prove Clay wrong, he couldn’t. Clay was right. 

As Ray looked at Trent, they shared a look, a memory of a conversation they’d once had a few years ago. They’d been concerned about Brock’s tendency, usually during prolonged deployments, to withdraw from the group, isolating himself, becoming increasingly detached. Trent, stared back at Ray. He took a deep breath and slowly nodded. He understood. Finally. 

“Brock had a brother. That’s all I know. That’s the only thing he’s ever told me in all the years that I’ve known him. He let it slip once. Mentioned something about an older brother. We were both pretty drunk at the time and I can’t even remember exactly he said. But I do remember, that as soon as he realized he’d let it slip, that the walls went up and he shut me out. That must be five years ago now. He never mentioned it again. Until today, I didn’t even know his name.”

Sonny got it. “Jack"

“Yeah. My guess? Jack was his brother and Brock lost him a long time ago. I don’t think he’s ever dealt with it. I think he doesn’t call us “brother”, because he can’t. It’s too painful for him. I think when we’re all together, we remind him too much of what he’s lost. Of the relationship, bond, experiences and memories that he never got to have with his own brother.” 

Trent felt as though he were betraying Brock’s privacy now sharing his speculations. But, he believed his suspicions were right and he knew he needed the rest of Bravo’s help. Trent knew that Brock had been hovering on the brink between life and death when he called out for his brother. Although it seemed that Brock had gathered some strength from Trent’s words back on the transport vehicle, Trent was terrified that if Brock was faced with the opportunity to finally be reunited with his brother that he’d surrender and slip and away from them forever. But, if Brock made it through surgery and survived this ordeal, the time had finally come. It was long overdue. Brock needed to deal with his grief. Hopefully he was ready. Bravo would be there to listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I know I’ve said a few times now that there was only one more chapter to go. But, as I work through it the chapters keep getting longer and I seem to be taking the long way around in wrapping this up. I do believe that the next chapter will be the final one. Hopefully it provides some good closure.


	7. Chapter 7

The five members of Bravo were exhausted. Truth be told, none of them had gotten much sleep since Brock was first reported missing. Aside from the physical exhaustion which had been compounding over the past few days, there was the emotional toll the past few hours had taken. Finding Brock, lying broken in the dirt, still and unmoving, haunted them. When he'd briefly regained consciousness, eyes glassy and distant, seemingly oblivious to their presence and deaf to their pleas, it shattered their hope. Now, the endless waiting from the surgeon had them in an agonizing limbo.

Finally, the surgeon appeared in front of them.

"He made it."

Trent heard the words. Internally repeating them to himself several times, trying to let it fully sink in. His heart was in his throat. His relief was so strong that he felt dizzy. He could feel his own blood pressure dropping. It honestly wasn't what he was expecting to hear. He had been preparing himself for the news that his best friend was dead. That he'd died on the table. Trent couldn't bring himself to look at the rest of Bravo. He didn't want them to know what he'd been thinking. What he was still thinking.

"He sustained numerous injuries and his body has been through a lot, but he pulled through. The GSW and broken femur were relatively uncomplicated. I expect he'll fully recover from both of those injuries, with proper physical therapy and rehabilitation. The burns to his forearm were more second degree than third, which is very good news. However, the internal injuries were more serious. He's not entirely out of the woods there. He's susceptible to infection and we won't know for a while how his organs will respond. But, and I can't emphasize this enough, he is young, strong and in incredible physical shape. That will help him a lot in his recovery. He'll be sedated for a while. His body needs to rest. I think you gentleman could use some rest as well."

Blackburn thanked the surgeon. While the rest of Bravo clasped shoulders and let the tension slowly dissipate, Trent followed the surgeon out of the room. There was still something he needed to know.

"Did he code?"

The surgeon was somewhat familiar with Trent, their paths having crossed a few times over the years. Exhausted himself from the grueling hours and effort spent in the OR, the surgeon could feel his shoulders drop, knowing he was about to have a difficult conversation.

"Why do you need to know that Trent?

"Please…...I just need to know. Did he code?"

The surgeon was unfortunately experienced in delivering devastating news to grieving families and grieving teammates.

"Yes. He did. Twice. Once in the medevac and once on the table. But, we got him back both times. I'll be honest with you, when I first saw him, I was shocked that he was still alive. I wouldn't have believed someone with his injuries could have survived for hours, alone, without medical attention. But he did. I can't imagine the strength that took. And then he came back, after coding twice. In my opinion, your friend is a fighter. He wants to live. I can't offer you guarantees, but after what I've seen, I wouldn't bet against him making it all the way back".

Trent felt himself take three or four steps backwards, leaning heavily against the wall, he thanked the surgeon for everything he and the medical team had done to save his friend's life. Left alone to compose himself, Trent forced himself to take several deep, cleansing breaths. He didn't know if he believed in white lights and the afterlife. But it was an incredible relief to know that Brock, who had called out for his brother, perhaps even seeing him right there in front of him as his life was slipping away, still fought to come back to them. Trent was hopeful that it meant Brock would finally be able to share with them all that he'd lost. That he would finally let them in to that part of his life.

________________________________________

For the first week following his surgery, Brock was mostly sedated. When he was conscious, he was still heavily medicated. The morphine played tricks on his mind and he had fragmented one-sided conversations with people only he could see. Yet, even under a heavy dose of morphine, Brock kept his secrets.

Brock's ghost conversations were clearly from his past, but they were mundane snapshots of everyday life. Sometimes they were about swim practice or homework or his dogs. But most of the time, there were only a few words here and there, taken out of context, such that they didn't make much sense to anyone else. Jason and Clay were a bit freaked out by it. Sonny though was surprisingly at ease. He engaged with Brock during these one-sided conversations, speaking kindly, and gently trying to anchor his friend back into reality. Sonny had helped care for his grandmother during her last days and had seen morphine have a similar effect on her. He avoided teasing Brock during these morphine aided breaks from reality. But, he kept his familiar sense of humor that would eventually ground Brock and ease him out of the harmless hallucinations.  
__________________________________________

After 10 days, Bravo was sent home, back to the US. Together. 

Bravos one through six, as well as one very important dog, were going home. The deployment which had started with an uneventful several weeks, followed by a hellish week or more, was finally over. They would make the trip home together. Just as they started. Only this time, Brock was accompanied by his own personal medical team, just in case.

___________________________________________

After the return stateside, Brock spent six weeks in inpatient rehabilitation. During that time, his parents had visited briefly. Needing to see with their own eyes that their son was going to be okay. It was clear to the rest of Bravo that Brock's parents were good people, who were terrified at how close they came to outliving both of their children. They were grateful for everything Bravo had done to save their son's life. Their visit seemed to boost Brock's spirits.

During Brock's final week of inpatient rehabilitation and physical therapy, Trent decided it was time. Brock had been weaned off the heavy-duty painkillers and had made significant progress. Mentally, he was clear headed and focused. He had participated in counselling to deal with some of the guilt that plagued him as the only survivor of the ambush and having been unable to save the five brave young men that had lost their lives fighting next to him.

Now, it was time for the long overdue conversation.

Brock could sense it was coming. He had been having memory flashes of the last few hours following the ambush, when he had been alone and dying. He knew he'd spent that time dreaming of his brother, remembering moments, big and small, of the 14-years they'd had together as brothers.

He couldn't be sure exactly, but he suspected that he'd been talking to his brother when Bravo found him. He could see from the way that they looked at him now, that something had changed. That they probably knew what he'd kept hidden from them for years. It must have come from when they found him. He doubted his parents would have said anything. As a family, they never talked about Jack. He didn't blame them. His parents had lost their son. And they were of a different generation. You kept your grief private. Don't share it with strangers. Don't look back. Keep moving forward. If you stop, even for a moment, the loss will swallow you whole.

As the rest of Bravo entered his room on that quiet Sunday morning in the physical rehabilitation facility, Brock felt his stomach lurch and his heart quicken. He knew in his gut why they were there. His first instinct was to put a mask in place and get his walls up. Reveal nothing. Keep moving forward. But something had changed. It wasn't that he couldn't continue holding it all in, sharing nothing, carrying the burden alone. If he wanted to, he could have easily taken it to his grave. However, now he found himself with an overwhelming need to share his past with his Bravo brothers. He wanted them to know about his brother, Jack. How much his brother had meant to him. How much it had hurt when he'd died. How much he missed him. How he'd spent years waiting to join him, but when his time had come, he wasn't ready. It wasn't his time after all.

Brock spoke first – which caught them all off guard. "I need to tell you about my brother, Jack".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: So yeah, that's not the last chapter. I keep underestimating how much filler there is in getting from point A to point B. The big conversation is coming. I could have included it here, but it's not quite done and I wanted to get a new chapter up before the holidays. So here's a bit more filler. The next (and final, I swear) chapter should be up by next weekend.


	8. Chapter 8

Brock was having a hard time finding the words. He found it equally difficult to look his friends in the eye. So, he kept his eyes cast downward, his hands fiddling with the hospital blankets that covered him. He’d told his Bravo teammates that he needed to tell them about his brother. And he wanted to. He knew it was time. But he didn’t know where or how to start. He thought to himself how much easier it would have been if they could have just plugged into his memories and seen it all for themselves. 

Bravo waited. For men so used to action and taking charge of any situation, they showed a surprising amount of restraint as they patiently waited for Brock to open up to them. Strangely, it was Sonny who broke the silence and eased some of the tension. “Was your brother as quiet as you? Is strong but silent a genetic trait in Reynolds men?” The question was asked was a great amount of sympathy, missing most, but not all, of Sonny’s acerbic tone. 

While he kept his eyes focused on his restless, fidgeting hands, Brock began to slowly nod his head. A small smile on his lips forming a soundless little laugh. Taking a deep breath, as though to steady himself, Brock looked up. His eyes wet and glistening. “God, Sonny….”

Trent immediately started to think that this had been a very bad idea. Sonny, gave away nothing in his posture or body language, but felt a knot in the pit of his stomach, had he pushed too hard, too soon? He felt out of his element when it came to emotions and issues requiring a more sensitive touch.

“God, Sonny….you remind me so much of him sometimes. You all do. I can see my brother, Jack, in every single one of you” 

Once he started, the words just began to pour out of him. He told Bravo about the accident. How his brother had died sitting next to him. How close they had been and how much he had loved him. How much he missed their bond as brothers. How, for months after the accident, he’d see people going about their regular lives, oblivious to his grief, and he hated them for it. He’d been so angry at the world for moving on.

He told them about how his family had moved a year after the accident. His parents said it was part of a new job opportunity. But, he knew they were running away from the ghost that haunted the only home that they’d ever lived in as a family of four. Leaving behind a town that would only ever look at them as the parents of a dead son. 

Brock told them, what he never told his parents, that he hadn't wanted to move. That he had needed to be surrounded by the places and memories he’d shared with his brother, and with the people that had known him. That he felt, when they’d moved, that they were abandoning Jack, both literally in leaving the town where he was buried, and metaphorically by erasing him from their history. 

As an adult he knew now that he couldn’t judge his parents’ grief or how they coped. As a devastated 14-year-old, he just followed their lead. As they settled into a new town, he knew not to mention his brother to anyone. So, as far as anyone knew, Brock was an only child. To the outside world, they were a perfect little family. The loving parents of one dutiful son. But inside the walls of their new home, his parents were so irretrievably broken and numb with grief. 

Brock was well aware of how much he physically resembled Jack, especially as he entered his mid to late teens. He embraced it and it became increasingly important to him. He’d grown to his brother’s height, with a similar build. They had the same facial features and same dark, curly hair. He even dressed like his brother, wearing some of his clothes. 

Living in a new town where no one had known Jack, there was never anyone to comment on their similarities. Jack was also very much a taboo topic within the extended family. No one ever talked about him. They didn’t want to upset anyone. People really have no idea what to do or say when someone dies. Especially when it’s someone so young. But, one night he’d overheard two of his Aunts talking about it. How seeing Brock now, at 17 years old, was like seeing a ghost of Jack. They wondered how his mother was able to look at him. Ruefully, he thought to himself, “she doesn’t”. 

Brock knew he was a walking, talking, spitting image, living reminder of the quick and violent death of his mother's first born. Brock knew his mother loved him as much or more as before the accident. But he also knew that he’d always remind her of Jack. When he grown to be a near twin of his brother, it was like his own silent protest. A visual reminder that even though they’d tried to erase him, that Jack was, and always would be, a part of them and their family. 

Brock had been so angry with his parents for moving and with the world for taking Jack for him, that he’d shut everyone out. He made his world small. 

For years there was nothing in his world but swimming and school. The two activities consumed him. Driven by a need to channel his rage at life into something physical, but not physically destructive, he’d become a nationally ranked swimmer by the age of 16, secured a college scholarship and eventually capped it with competing at Olympic Trials. He had no delusions of glory. He knew he an also-ran amongst elites. When it was over, he was fine walking away from it. 

The end of his swim career coincided with his graduation from college. When he walked into a navy recruiting station a week later it came as a total surprise to everyone he knew. But not to Brock. He knew that he still needed a physical distraction. A new challenge. A goal to work towards. Something that could give him a purpose and ability to help others, but with a physicality and immediacy. Something that a regular 9-5 life and job couldn’t give him. The military was the obvious choice. That he’d watched countless war movies with his brother was part of it well. 

_____________________________________________________________________________

Brock had kept his composure for most of the day. He’d laughed when he spoke of Jack’s love of playing practical jokes on their father and some of the misadventures that he’d gotten into when they were younger. He smiled when he talked about vising his brother in Munich. He was at peace when he talked about their childhood and all the little things he could remember about his brother. He was surprised at all the memories that flooded out of him. Memories that had been dormant, too painful to be spoken of for years, were now fresh and comforting. It was a burden being lifted. A burden being shared. 

There were times throughout the day though when things became emotional and Brock would struggle with his old coping mechanisms of ignore and override. But, the rest of Bravo was patient. Instead of letting Brock withdraw from them or shut them out, they gently and carefully asked questions here and there, helping to draw out what it was the Brock was struggling to share. 

A lot of it was emotional for Bravo as well. Finally understanding how much pain Brock had been in for most of his adult life. Wishing they could have done something sooner to help him. 

Clay had asked Brock about the night of his 33rd birthday. The night that Brock had gotten so drunk that Clay and Sonny had to carry him home; and Trent had to start an IV in the morning to deal with the hangover. It was a night that had stood out to Clay and had scared him. It was the first time he had seen the darkness that Brock worked so hard to hide. 

Brock told them first of the night of his 19th birthday. It had played out similarly, only the ending was different. Instead of an IV drip, it ended with a night in the ER getting his stomach pumped. At 19, Brock had officially outlived his brother. Every year, every birthday from 19 on, were years and milestones that his brother would never have. He felt such guilt that he tried to drown it in alcohol and bad choices that were entirely out-of-character. Getting his stomach pumped was his punishment. He felt that was the least of what he deserved. The story struck a chord with Ray. Maybe their reasons were different, but Ray knew exactly what Brock had been feeling that night. 

He told them of the night of his 29th birthday. The birthday that marked the point in life where he’d lived 15 years without his brother. Those 15 years without him were more than the 14 years they had together. He’d been secretly downward spiralling for a few weeks leading up to his birthday and it came to a head, ending in an off-duty, ugly bar fight in his hometown. The town where the accident had taken place and where they’d buried his brother. He’d come out of the fight with some bruises and broken bones in his hand and wrist. Shamefully he admitted that he was pretty much entirely at fault for starting the fight. He confessed that he’d been looking for one that night and had deliberately chosen a bar that he knew wasn’t exactly filled with a bunch of good Samaritans. Fortunately, his military career was spared when a sympathetic police officer, who had been a high school friend of his brother, was able to ensure that no one pressed charges. 

Brock had been a member of Bravo at the time, so hearing about this now came as quite a shock to all of them. Sonny remembered seeing Brock, who was their quiet rookie at the time, arrive for debrief with his right arm casted from his knuckles to his forearm. He remembered how furious Jason was that Brock would be stood down for 6 weeks while the injury healed. He couldn’t remember what Brock’s explanation had been, or if one had been offered. But he knew that instigator of a wild bar fight would have been something that would have never crossed his mind. Not when it came to Brock. 

Now, Sonny gave a low appreciative whistle. “Damn, Brock. You can’t be having all the fun. You know I love me a good old-fashioned scuffle. But, next time you feel a need to crack some heads, give me a call, I know a good gym where we can work out some issues”. 

The bar fight had scared Brock away from making any similarly bad choices in the future that could end his career. Being a part of Bravo, being part of a team with Jason, Ray, Sonny and Trent (and now Clay) was too important to him. He was also, ultimately too responsible, too dependable and too practical, to allow his grief to ruin him. But it didn’t stop him from dwelling on certain milestones. 

The night he turned 33, the night that had scared Clay, was the last milestone in nearly two decades of grief. At 33, Brock had now lived a life longer without a brother than his brother’s total life. His brother had lived 18 years. Brock had lived 19 without him. 

Rationally, he knew at the time that there was a randomness to it. That he was picking arbitrary dates and milestones to unhealthily dwell on. But, he wasn’t perfect. He also needed an outlet for his grief. Where he'd been filled with anger when he was younger, after a few years in the military, he just felt loss and heartache whenever he thought of Jack. Having been with Bravo for a number of years, forming close bonds with his teammates, he was acutely aware of what he had lost when his brother died. 

The realization that he would never know his brother as an adult wrecked him. He would have given anything, done anything, sacrificed everything to have been able to spend just one day with his brother now, together as grown men. 

The men of Bravo were constant reminders of it. So he had kept himself at a distance from them, emotionally, and sometimes physically when it got to be too much. He realized now with such clarity, perhaps after coming so close to dying, that he had refused to fully accept the brotherhood Bravo offered, because he believed it would somehow be disrespectful to Jack. He didn’t know why he’d martyred himself and Jack like that. He knew that Jack would have never wanted this for him. That his brother would have wanted him to surround himself with people that loved him, who cared for him as a brother. The best thing he could have done to honour Jack’s life, was to live his own life, not just observe it. And to let the people in that loved him unconditionally. That loved him as their brother. 

_____________________________________________

Emotionally drained, and still recovering from his physical injuries, Brock was exhausted. He needed sleep. The rest of Bravo were gathering up their coats and preparing to let him rest for a bit. They knew Brock well enough to know that he needed his privacy. Even though they knew a bit more about him now, Brock was still Brock. His personality hadn’t changed. He’d still be the one of them all who most needed his alone time. 

Brock knew they’d probably spend the next several hours talking about him anyway. Going over everything he had told them. He didn’t mind. He understood. It was a lot. It explained a lot. He knew nothing he had said would change how they treated him. That he was still their brother. He was grateful to each and every one of them. He was grateful to Jason for his leadership. For selecting him out of Green Team years ago and giving him a family in Bravo. Ray was the emotional leader and their moral compass. Ray knew the lines not to be crossed. Sonny was the spark. He kept them loose and was the most obvious reminder of the stupid, fun, crazy shit brothers do. Clay was in the unique position of being a younger brother. Allowing Brock the opportunity to be the older brother to Clay that Jack had been to him. And Trent. Trent was his best friend. The brother he knew he would have for the rest of his life. The brother that most understood him. 

They were the brothers that saved his life more than once, in more than one way. They were the brothers that Jack had sent to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: That’s it, that’s all. I’m sorry that took so long to finish. I also apologize for the last chapter probably not being exactly what you may have been looking for. I just couldn’t get the dialogue right, so I scrapped it and went with a more descriptive narrative instead. Thank-you to everyone who took the time to read this piece. I have appreciated your reviews and comments more than I can express without sounding mushy.


End file.
